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I would hate to be a woman in South Africa. That’s a bold statement, I know, but let me explain. Even before this trip, I knew a little about this country’s history of marginalizing its women. For my final in a class I took on social movements last semester, I wrote a 14 page essay on the impact of the anti-apartheid movement on the role of women in South Africa – about how many lacked basic rights before apartheid’s fall, and how even after their pivotal role in the movement, recognition and elevated level in society were not quick to follow. This is not an issue unique to South Africa, but it is an issue all the same, and now, after spending almost two months here, I am again made aware of the fact that there are still many problems here surrounding feminism and women’s rights.

We talk a lot about the HIV/AIDS epidemic here in South Africa, and in many other countries across the African continent as well. But there’s another epidemic, and it’s just as ugly and creating just as many victims. Rape – or as I’ve learned as my time as an intern at the Sonke Gender Justice Network, any type of gender-based violence – is another huge issue facing this country. Quite simply, this is a country that is at war with its women, prompting the ANC Women’s League to go so far as describing the extreme gender-based violence running rampant in the country as “femicide.”

While extreme, the use of the word femicide is not entirely incorrect. Research done by the Medical Research Council, in a study of data between 1999 and 2009, shows that the rate of female homicides in South Africa was five times higher than the global rate. On average, a woman is raped every four minutes and one is killed every eight hours by her partner or relative. One third of all South African men have admitted to committing rape. Think about how many more there must be who would never admit it. In the halls of Sonke Gender Justice Network, where I’m lucky enough to be working this summer, there are entire bulletins filled with newspaper clippings concerning these very issues, reminding the employees what we’re fighting for, or more importantly, what we’re fighting against.

To truly understand the epidemic of violence against women in South Africa, I’ll ground this issue in an actual experience I’ve had this summer. Many conversations I’ve had with people here confirm regressive views on women and their rights. For example, a man charged with showing us around Sonke’s health clinic in the township of Gugulethu, made casual conversation about the not-so-casual topic of rape and where the culpability in those situation lies. Even if it was not his intention, what he was telling us lets me know that he supports victim-blaming. He talked about how rape and sexual assault is often the girl’s fault, and as he spoke, I saw at least two other men in our group nodding their heads in agreement. “They drink too much,” he said. “So much that they don’t even know where they are.”

…So what? The only cause of rape is rapists. It has nothing to do with how short their skirt may be, how much alcohol they’ve consumed, or whether or not they’ve been flirting and sending “mixed signals”. (Hint: there is no such thing as a mixed signal, there is only consent and lack of consent). There are obviously steps young women can take to avoid as many of these situations as possible, but it is ultimately never their fault. Society is teaching women “Don’t get raped” rather than teaching men “Don’t rape.”

Signs condemning victim blaming

In fact, he says that they give girls female condoms and encourage them to put the on in the morning, just in case they get raped.

Just in case. Think about that, really. Because I heard it a week ago and it’s still unsettling, still making me uncomfortable. It’s hard to wrap my mind around the idea that there are women and girls who expect rape, prepare for it even.

The problem is not everyone finds it unsettling. Many don’t even find it weird. Much like HIV/AIDS ten years ago, people don’t want to discuss it. Specifically, important people, people who could actually make a difference and have an impact, don’t want to discuss it. Earlier this year, South African athlete Oscar Pistorious, the incredibly tenacious runner who inspired thousands world-over as he competed in last year’s Olympics on his mechanical legs, murdered his girlfriend in their home. Coincidentally, the same day, South African President Jacob Zuma gave his State of the Nation speech. He decried the rampant violence against women, without announcing any serious new measures to fight gender-based violence. It’s hard to fight a war with a government that is more interested in words and not actions. A government that, in fact, is led by a man that was charged with rape in 2005 and put on trial for his crime. That feels relevant, doesn’t it?

I know that it’s unfair to make broad generalizations about the entire South African male population, and I’ve tried not to do that, especially because I’ve met many great men this summer who denounce the old-fashioned patriarchal views and are determined to fight for a better, more equitable society for their daughters (and sons). I know that rape happens all around me in the United States, too, and that gender-based violence is a huge issue there as well, especially when it comes to hate crimes against the LGBTQ community. I know that South Africa is a country crying out for a real conversation about violence against women and rape, and I know that, eventually, that conversation will happen. But until it does, I know that, as much as my friends and I joke about how we’ll one day come back to live in South Africa and enjoy the beaches, mild winters, and malva pudding, until there are some major societal changes in this wonderful, confusing country, I probably won’t.

Nearly six weeks after our departure from Johannesburg, I continue to find myself grappling with the lessons of our visit. During our time in the city, we ventured into the Soweto and Alexandra townships in order to better understand the lasting effects of apartheid policy. (Townships, in the apartheid era, were living areas designated for non-whites. I use the term were tenuously because describing residential segregation by race as a relic of the past belies the reality of contemporary South Africa. Indeed, during our time in the townships, I did not see one white person—a finding that has been reaffirmed by my work in the Cape Town township, Gugulethu. Such lack of diversity suggests to me that the playing field, far from being leveled, has remained severely skewed since the end of apartheid.)

Homes in the Alexandra township of Johannesburg

As our van made its way through the neighborhood’s narrow streets, cameras clicked accompanied by audible expressions of astonishment. Periodically, our driver would decelerate or come to a full brake in order to allow better observation and, of course, photography. The entire van took in our surroundings, rapt by the environment we were seeing and our tour guide’s comments.

It was the sort of reaction one expects from a safari rather than a visit to an impoverished, crime-ridden neighborhood. Indeed, such a reaction strikes me as inconceivable in the United States. Here we were peering in on the lives of South Africa’s most destitute citizens with an almost perverse fascination. (My roommate, Brandon, labeled it best when he referred to the act as voyeuristic: https://ctdukeengage2013.wordpress.com/2013/06/20/voyeur/). Meanwhile, the general rule when driving through America’s inner cities and projects is “drive faster.” Somehow, the exotic locale made such abject poverty worthy of our attention; conversely, such consideration falls by the wayside in the US despite the inescapable reality that certain neighborhoods are subject to comparable conditions.

Shanty town in Fresno, California (via NYTimes). Not a far cry from the informal settlements witnessed around South Africa.

I say this not to dismiss the importance of community work in places like Johannesburg and Cape Town but rather to emphasize our (myself included) occasional failure to recognize the need to extend such work to our own communities. When the DukeEngage motto reads “Challenge yourself. Change yourworld,” it is stressing this essential point. Through my interactions in South Africa, I have found myself repeatedly dissatisfied with my level of engagement in my own communities. The fact that this discovery required a trip to Africa is not lost on me—it’s absurd. But regardless of the impetus, I am grateful for the experience. All too often, I allow my humdrum, collegiate routine to obscure the more consequential issues that surround me. Some have aptly described this phenomenon as the “Duke bubble,” but regardless of its title, my experiences here have demonstrated the need to involve myself more fully in the communities I inhabit (whether it be Durham or Las Vegas).

As we enter the final week of our trip (a fact I’ve tried unsuccessfully to ignore), I find myself frequently returning to a single question: how do we translate the lessons we are learning in South Africa into meaningful conduct back home? Indeed, the more I learn here, the clearer it becomes that the challenges plaguing South Africa are by no means unique to the country. The US is particularly not exempt from difficulties such as abject poverty and residential segregation along racial lines, which continue to pervade South African society. Nearly half a century after the official end of Jim Crow laws and de jure segregation, de facto residential segregation and legal discrimination are still very much alive. Most recently, The Supreme Court’s decision to strike down the section of the Voting Rights Act requiring certain states to gain federal approval prior to changing election laws illustrates our country’s willingness to ignore the reality of racial discrimination in contemporary society—a concern that Texas was quick to justify by putting its controversial voter identification law into immediate effect. The denial of this reality reinforces the “post-racial” narrative that parts of our country have unfortunately chosen to embrace. On the contrary, my stay here in South Africa has demonstrated that we are still struggling with a racial past and present that is not so dissimilar from South Africa’s.

Although my experiences here have been fraught with confusion and uneasiness, a large part of this anxiety stems from my travels accentuating these unpleasant truths about the US. Coming to South Africa, I expected to examine the nation’s remaining obstacles post-segregation, but I never imagined I would unearth so many of America’s. In all honesty, I am still searching for an answer to the question of how to effectively translate these lessons into worthwhile involvement at home. Fortunately, I am beginning to ask the right questions—questions about a nation’s shortcomings, successes, contradictions, and potential. And, most notably, what my responsibility is as a citizen of that nation.

Warning: The blog post you are about to read is so incredibly nondescript that it may seem almost out of place on a blog like ours. Please remain calm.

The past weeks have been by all accounts extraordinarily…ordinary.

Two Saturdays ago we travelled to Robben Island to tour the Robben Island prison where Madiba spent the majority of his prison sentence. I had expected the experience to leave me with more emotional after-effects than it did. After all, this was the location where Mandela spent 18 years (let’s re-read that: eighteen years) in prison as a political detainee. The prison itself, though, is not much to look at. It looks just like any other prison. It feels like any other prison. That’s because it is just like any other prison. The experience was not what I had expected because I anticipated an awesome (by that I mean, Extremely impressive or daunting) site. It was nevertheless a great opportunity to see one of the most important historical sites in South Africa. What’s more, the next day, President Obama decided to take a leaf out of our book and visit Robben Island as well. I felt pretty good that day knowing that we had, obviously through our visit, inspired the President to learn more about Madiba’s time in prison. I hope he learned a great deal and, if he wants, we have an entire list of other locations for him to visit if and when the opportunity presents itself to him.

On to the workweeks.

Work has recently centered on research tasks for a woman named Lieve, at TAC, who helps manage the research department. We have been spending our days informing her on issues ranging from TB in prisons and associated architectural factors to Human Papillomavirus and its affiliated vaccination program in lower quintile schools. Personally, I found it refreshing to break back into a repertoire of cold, plain and pedantic scientific vocabulary after weeks of using a vernacular filled with far too much emotion, investment and Pollyanna for my taste. For the first time of my stint at TAC I find myself using words that really speak to me like “polyadenalated monocistronic mRNA” and “cell”. After spending weeks entering membership data (question of the internship: The form says female, the name says male…what. do. I. do?) even the most basic of research tasks can placate me. It’s been really fun, actually, to research almost random infectious disease topics all day long without knowing exactly why we’re being asked to do it. But you know what, the science aficionado within me is starved to the point that I don’t even care what the motive of our work is right now.

This past weekend has been, if anything, extraordinary. On Saturday we toured the wine country outside of Cape Town called Stellenbosch. Its sprawling hills and beautiful vistas aside, Stellenbosch has reinforced my assertion that Cape Town is actually San Francisco in disguise. Both cities have a large immigrant population (Malay/Indian vs. Chinese), both have their own prison island (I mean HELLO, is it not obvious?), both are built into hills, their climates are *basically* the same and, after touring Stellenbosch, I realize that both have a gorgeous wine country just hours away. You might as well call Cape Town the San Francisco of Africa (or should we call San Francisco the Cape Town of North America?). Regardless, the trip to Stellenbosch was incredible.

The next day, our group had a celebratory Braai (barbecue) for the 4th of July (ok, we were a few days late cut us some slack. Cape Town time is about 4 days slow). I came in touch with my grilling side, and our entire group worked together marvelously to produce a feast of chicken, sausages and grilled veg. We all went to sleep as happy and as bloated as can be expected with over a kilo of food in each of us.

That’s my update for the past two weeks–and we only have two weeks left here.

In the words of the great philosopher, Nelly Furtado, “Why must all good things come to an end?

I work at the District Six Museum. Like all museums, the District Six Museum works with history. However, there are few ways that make the District Six Museum unlike any museum I’ve encountered on this trip and even at home.

At District Six, the focus is on the people—not the great men that are commemorated in most South African museums (you’d be hard pressed to find an exhibit about Mandela, Biko, or Chris Hani in the D6 halls). Rather, the museum highlights the stories of the everyday people that lived in the multiracial District Six community, owned their homes, and were forcibly removed as a result of Apartheid era laws. Lining the walls of the café and café hallways are posters on which still-living, removed District Six residents have handwritten their stories, wistful memories of waking up in their homes, in a vibrant community between the sea and Table Mountain. Recollections of traditional foods, such as sweet pastry koeksisters and coffee, curried bobotie and snoek fish, can be found on these posters as well, accompanied by hand drawn decorations created by the women themselves. Such is the history that the District Six Museum deals with: the quotidian experience told by those who may not have created anti-Apatheid political dissidence, but experienced the horrors of the Apartheid regime nonetheless.

Tour guides at District Six are not young men and women who have extensively researched or studied the Apartheid era, they are older, ex-residents of District Six who were forcibly removed from their homes and their communities. Take Noor Ebrahim, a 70 year old ex-resident whose story constitutes a large exhibit in the main display room at District Six. Everyday, Noor tells his story to groups of yearning museum visitors and learners, showing photographs of his old home, family, and friends, pinpointing the location of his house on the massive floor map (which displays the streets and street names of District Six before it was bulldozed and reformatted by the Apartheid government), and giving listeners an authentic glimpse into what life was like for himself and his family growing up in District Six before being evicted to the Cape Flats for being a non-white citizen. Being able to converse with and question Noor about his time is the closest thing to experiential learning that one can receive at a Museum. Many of the museums we have visited hire spectacular tour guides, who possess formidable knowledge about the effects of the Apartheid decrees that dispossessed and disenfranchised the non-white majority population of various communities and regions. That sort of knowledge is important, but the District Six Museum is far more attuned to grappling with tales and memories that come directly from the source.

I mentioned earlier that there were posters of ‘ordinary’ women and their stories in one section of the museum. These women are actually part of a workshop group that the museum runs every Tuesday from 9 am to 1 pm called Huis Kombuis (Afrikaans for Home Kitchen). The ex-resident women of Huis Kombuis trek from various outskirts of Cape Town (to which they were removed over 40 years ago) to their hometown of District Six to collaborate and create art pieces and sundries that reflect the residential lifestyle of the pre-bulldozed District Six. Beautiful pillows, featuring traditional blue and white floral designs, crafted with paint and candle wax, are sowed together by the women. Using old photo albums, they create collages of themselves in the city, imposing pictures of their families over photos of their old homes, over panoramas of District Six streets and buildings that were bulldozed and can no longer be found. These creations will eventually be displayed, yet that is not the purpose of Huis Kombuis. Rather, the museum runs the workshop and museum staff such as Tina, who is the head of collections, give their time and effort toward facilitating the workshop so that they may revitalize the these women’s memories, giving them a space where they may be recollected, cherished and shared. These ‘ordinary’ women may not have been a part of the direct struggle against Apartheid; they were not critical cogs of the dissident response that eventually disabled it either. Yet in hearing their personal stories and struggles it becomes clear that these women are extraordinary, everyday heroes. Patience Watlington grew up on Church St. in the pre-bulldozed District Six, in a multiracial environment where her colored skin was never seen as an impediment for her dream to work in the medical field. When her family was removed from District Six to the wastelands of Bloemhof Flats and her home bulldozed, her prospects seemingly disappeared. Yet the proximity to the city center that she lost in being removed didn’t stop her from becoming a midwife/nurse at the Peninsula Maternity Hospital in District Six—though the journey was an arduous one she faced it everyday, dealing with aggressive, racist passbook officers and an unwelcoming new, all white population in order to work out her dreams. In hearing the stories of women like Patience, Joyce Jonathan, Marion Sheppard, and other participants in Huis Kombuis, I now understand a bit more about what makes the District Six Museum experience so unique. Memories, and oral histories in general, don’t possess the same historical accuracy that has come to be respected in academic settings and texts. Memories can wither; they can be reconstructed and transformed. Yet therein lies their beauty and power, the sort that one encounters when reading a novel or fairy tale; these qualities are so often lost in textbook history, which turns the past into a story of the haves and the have-nots in order to highlight power dynamics. At District Six, the process is just as important as the outcome: though Huis Kombuis is a product development workshop and the creations will be sold as merchandise for the museum or be used as features in the exhibit space, the magic happens during the workshop, where laughter and recollections run free—this is an experience that Kerri and I are so fortunate to be a part of.

Though District Six is a museum that works closely with older ex-residents who have directly experienced Apartheid the museum also actively reaches out the younger generation, the ‘freeborns’ who are growing up in the first era of a democratic South Africa. Last weekend Kerri and I worked alongside law students from the University of Cape Town and Stellenbosch University (who work with an organization that focuses on legal education for the youth, CLASI) to organize a ConCamp weekend for students from various high schools around Cape Town. The 3 day long workshop focused on teaching the students constitutional literacy, stressing the importance of the youth in matters of social justice and reversing the legacy of Apartheid. At the end of the weekend, the students competed in moot courts, debating over cases of land dispossession created by the law students. As an American student, it was an enriching experience: I had the opportunity to watch these young students enter the camp, relatively unaware of the complex issues they would be faced with, and see their transformation as they grappled with problems that highlighted the intricate relationship between identity, land, power, laws, and geography. 16 year old Zainab, a fair skinned ‘colored’ girl told me that she couldn’t understand how people designated as colored discriminated against black Africans despite the fact that both groups were considered inferior during Apartheid and so many black Africans were responsible for its eventual dismantling. This reflection came after we had visited an interactive Apartheid exhibit at the Cape Town International Convention Center on Friday, where actors played roles that existed during Apartheid. Walking in, we were confronted by aggressive passbook officers, who questioned us with racist undertones. I encountered a white woman, sitting on a bench that was marked “Slegs Blankes” (Whites Only), who yelled at me, threatened to call the police, and invited Kerri to sit with her on the bench. Though the experience was quite jarring (to the point of being questionable), the effect was quite profound. Zainab was brought to tears by the passbook officer, but through the anguish she encountered at the exhibit came a increased willingness to confront the sorts of issues related to the social ripples created during the Apartheid Era that still affect everyday life in South Africa today. As a poet who accompanied the museum staff and a large group of ex-residents on a remembrance walk throughout the bulldozed, undeveloped areas of District Six said in reference to dealing with the vestiges of Apartheid, “You can’t paint a rainbow on a monster”. Seeing the young students begin to understand why reversing the legacy of Apartheid was a task that would fall largely upon their shoulders was an extremely gratifying experience.

I only have three weeks left on my trip but I’m still excited for the coming projects that we will be tackling at District Six. I can’t thank DukeEngage enough for giving me the opportunity to engage with living history in such a dynamic way. And I can’t thank District Six enough for opening their doors to Kerri and I and allowing us to take part in such varied projects and assignments that have not only deepened my understanding of South African history, but also broadened my mental framework in regard to global sociocultural issues. When I return, I will bring these experiences home with me and apply them to my own life, community engagement, and academic pursuit.

Last week, in our group reflection session, I raised the question, “What is something you were not expecting to get out of this trip that you actually have?” I was interested to hear everyone’s answers because, regardless of situation, I always find this a difficult question to answer, since it requires a level of introspection before and during an experience that I usually lack. I was looking forward to many things about this trip – including exploring Johannesburg and Cape Town, making new friends, and having my first full-time internship; however, something I completely undervalued at the beginning was how much I would appreciate the educational aspect of this experience.

In Johannesburg, we had a whirlwind week spent delving into South African culture and history, trying to learn as much as we could through museums and tours. The history crash course was amazing, and I enjoyed being able to hear many different stories and perspectives on apartheid, whether it was through the interactive exhibits at the Apartheid museum or going through the township of Alexandra with one of its former residents. Even now, some of my favorite moments come on Monday evenings when we have speakers come and share their experiences. So far, my favorites have been Minister Paul Verryn, a former anti-apartheid activist who also preaches at the Johannesburg Central Methodist Church, which doubles as a place of refuge to thousands of Zimbabwean refugees under his direction, and Denis Goldberg, one of the primary white activists who worked alongside Nelson Mandela to end apartheid. We were also able to meet with the legendary Allister Sparks, who as a writer, journalist and political commentator, was very involved with the anti-apartheid struggle.

In fact, it was after our conversation with Mr. Sparks that I committed myself to journaling this summer, lest I forget all of the great things I’ve been learning. Now I find myself scribbling in my Moleskine all throughout the day, capturing the many different comments and statistics I encounter about South African life. I expected to increase my knowledge of South Africa and its fascinating, torrid history just by virtue of living and working here for two months, but there’s something else I’ve been learning a lot about that I was not expecting to, and that frankly I’m a little embarrassed to admit – American history.

One of the things that drew me specifically to the DukeEngage Cape Town program was the opportunity to examine the parallels between the United States and South Africa, along with the existing differences – the most obvious similarity being the countries’ shared history of racial segregation. In learning more about the horrors of apartheid, I was surprised by the amount I was also learning about the American civil rights movement. I knew (or thought I knew) a lot about civil rights already, having grown up in an African-American household that always emphasized our culture and roots, but time and time again on this trip I’ve encountered new information regarding a struggle I thought I knew so much about. Before this trip, I had always thought of Rosa Parks as the courageous woman who refused to move to the back of the bus, but knew nothing of how she had been at the forefront of various civil rights and feminist movements for decades prior. I also made it through my entire high school career without any mention of the Wilmington race riots or the Greensboro sit-ins, even though they were both key events in American history.

I have to attribute a lot of the knowledge I’m gaining to the incredible Duke staff accompanying us on our trip. Our much-loved leaders include Dr. William Chafe (Bill), a history professor, Dr. Robert Korstad (Bob), who teaches in both public policy and history, and Anne-Marie Angelo (Ama), who just graduated with her Ph.D in history. It’s a wonderful experience to be able to receive this wisdom from people who have actually experienced some of the things we learn about and are still actively engaged in the conversations surrounding them. For example, Bill, who we spent the first four weeks of the trip with, doesn’t just write books about gender and racial equality – he started the women’s studies department at Vassar and actually participated in the Freedom Summer of 1964. And you can watch a video here of Bob explaining why he recently got arrested for civil disobedience as a part of the ‘Moral Monday’ campaign in North Carolina, which protests the recent Republican-backed regressive agenda on social programs, voting rights, education and tax policy – actions that all disproportionately hurt the poor and minorities.

Shoutout to the great Bill Chafe, aka Colonel Sanders from KFC

Thanks to them, I am getting my questions answered, the gaps in my knowledge filled in, and encouragement when I ask in bewilderment “How could I not have known about this?” All of this goes to show that there truly is always more to learn, and even while learning about another country’s rich history, I can’t forget to acknowledge my own.

For whatever reason, my pictures are not showing up. Just imagine that I posted two pictures of South Africa, one with locations of mines and the other with provinces color coded for HIV rate. Now imagine that the mine-containing provinces superimpose perfectly over the provinces with highest HIV rates. Wow, imagination rocks you guys.

Although I had heard a great deal about the Duke Engage program before I applied to Duke, I had never once seriously considered applying for one of its programs. I believed that the cultural and social lessons of Duke Engage would not apply to my science and mathematics based education. Nonetheless, when October came around and Facebook began throwing Duke Engage back into my world, I explored the option.

The Cape Town program immediately changed my mind about Duke Engage, much to my chagrin.

I saw in the program not just an opportunity to gain experience working with health-focused NGOs (such as the Treatment Action Campaign) but also the unique opportunity to experience a nation ravaged by HIV and other infectious diseases, topics which have interested me since before-I-can-remember.

So I applied. I got in. And here I am, an Engineer in South Africa. I put emphasis on my major because it forms the lens through which I have so far experienced South Africa—one of public health, sanitation and disease prevention.

My more scientifically based approach to this trip has given me a great insight into many of the locations we were lucky enough to experience, such as Soweto and Alexandra townships in Johannesburg, Gauteng. Alexandra more than Soweto is a sea of shanty houses intermixed with crumbling buildings and open toilet facilities utilized by too many of its hundreds-of-thousands large population. While others may have connected the situation to a discussion on post-Apartheid socioeconomic outlooks or a conversation about poverty, I was interested more intensely on the public health situation in the township.

Earlier this year, mainly second semester, I began building a much better understanding of public health issues through Dr. Sherryl Broverman’s (Brovvvesss!) course, AIDS and Emerging Diseases. The course emphasized modes and factors of transmission as well as a general understanding of the HIV epidemic in South Africa’s townships. These lessons helped me a great deal to understand the health situation in Alexandra.

Alexandra has very little if any public sanitation in place that we could see. The restaurant we ate at had a hole in the wall that customers could use to relieve themselves though I highly doubt the average resident has such a luxury. We saw surgical centers on the road that consisted of no more than a tarp laid across three wooden poles stuck into the ground. Such a lack of sanitation is a prime breeding ground for diseases like Typhus, Dysentery and Cholera. The sanitary situation in Alexandra only underscores the underlying socio-economic factors of health disparities in South Africa. Put quite plainly, if you’re pooping into an open sewer, or getting an operation on the side of the road, you’re going to have a bad time.

Continuing aboard this train of thought, it seems that healthcare is almost a non-reality in the townships, from what I have learned through personal experience and discussions. The most shocking part of the story, however, is that healthcare in South Africa is, in most cases, absolutely free. Yet, the services are still unattainable for residents of the township who lack either the transportation or the education to utilize social services (or both). Moreover, the dearth of health professionals in South Africa forces any patients who make it to these free providers to wait DAYS in order to receive treatment.

The inconsistency of the health system in this country (I understand that my lens is quite narrow and that this situation is present in many other countries as well as South Africa) is incredibly debilitating especially with regard to the management of AIDS here. The ARVs (Anti-Retrovirals) used to hold HIV in check require strict adherence lest HIV build immunity to them (HIV has no replicative error checking proteins, so it mutates rapidly allowing for rapid viral evolution). In a newsletter distributed by the TAC (Treatment Action Campaign), the General Secretary Vuyiseka Dubula notes an epidemic of un-stocked clinics and long wait-times that predispose patients to inconsistency in their ARV treatment. The AIDS epidemic here is a hydra of an issue—there are so many different issues that are not taken care of and that cannot be taken care of with an under-stocked and at times unreachable health system.

In the West, we quite often lose sight of how important sanitation is to preventing disease but South African’s are quite aware of their situation. Just the other day my office workers and I watched a roaring crowd of toilet-bowl-clad protestors march down Adderley Street demanding a revamping of the public sanitation in the main local township, Khayelitsha. The populations within the townships only reinforce the gravity of the situation—the high population densities in South Africa’s townships make them all tinderboxes for infectious disease. All it would take is a small number of infected individuals to start a wildfire infection that would spread throughout the population.

Speaking of wildfires, an incredibly ominous aspect of the townships is the proximity of the houses—they are quite literally on top of one another. The only thought that went through my head, and a thought which still disturbs me to bring up again, was that (and I quote mental-me): “all it would take is one uncovered fire to raze this entire community to the ground, and kill thousands.” I’ll just leave that thought in your minds.

By far the most interesting area of the townships, though, are the hostels, places which Dr. Broverman’s class taught us to view as the ground-zero of the South African AIDS epidemic. One of the compounding issues for the AIDS epidemic in South Africa especially was the mining industry that initiated a phenomenon called Circular Migration

Basically, mining companies would hire migrant workers from the provinces of South Africa and house them in hostel houses. These hostel houses would inevitably attract sex workers keen to exploit the newly introduced source of revenue. In turn, many large sexual networks formed around the hostels with the miners and the sex workers forming a web of sexual interaction. This heavily branched network made all its participants incredibly vulnerable to HIV when it entered South Africa and quickly spread the virus. So now the miners and sex workers were infected, but how did that impact the rest of the country? This is where the circle closes. The workers returned home, eventually, and entered into new sexual networks there—infecting their families and communities. Knowing the role that these hostels played in the establishment of the AIDS epidemic made me shudder. The day after we visited Alexandra I brought up two maps of South Africa. One map showed the HIV prevalence by province, and the other showed the location of mining deposits in the country. The overlap was reinforcing and disturbing. The provinces with ore-deposits were also the ones most impacted by HIV/AIDS. Most prominent among these provinces is KwaZulu Natal, the location of a large portion of South Africa’s deposits and also the most HIV-ravaged province in the country.

HIV statistics per province

Look at the two pictures to the left and superimpose them in your mind. It’s quite fascinating.

Mining fields (brown). Compare this to the provincial map.

So far, South Africa has been an amazing experience. Being able to witness places like Alexandra has been an amazing opportunity, especially to put some of my public-health education to use. Yet, I recognize that my experience has been one of a pseudo-tourist, experiencing abject poverty and a dearth of health services during the day and finely cooked meals and hot showers at night. I recognize also that I just writing down these observations will not change the situation in South Africa. I recognize that something needs to be done. I’m still not sure exactly how to do it.

It’s hard to believe that we have already been at our internships for 2 1/2 weeks and even more surprising to see how quickly Stefani and I became integrated into the work of the Women’s Legal Centre. I came to South Africa with pretty negative perceptions regarding the inexplicable rates of physical and sexual violence, especially against women.

Looking at the statistics, you would be pessimistic too:

WLC Educational Booklet on the Rights of Sex Workers

Studies estimate that 1 in 2 to 1 in 6 women are experiencing domestic violence

One woman is killed by her intimate partner every eight hours

27% of South African men have raped a woman or girl

14% of South African men have raped a current or ex-girlfriend

One woman is raped every 17 seconds in South Africa

Between 28% and 30% of women’s first sexual encounters are forced

South Africa has the largest number of recorded child-rapes in the world

Each day at least 50 children are victims of rape

Our first project at the WLC only reaffirmed my apprehensiveness about the state of affairs in South Africa. Sara (an awesome intern that just left the WLC) passed on her assignment of researching harmful cultural practices in SA– including witch doctors, satanism, and muti killings. Article after article revealed brutal stories of sacrificial killings for satanism and muti (body parts used in rituals by witch doctors). Satanism has also become an increasing problem among the youth population and many of the killings we read about involved groups of young adults. Needless to say, the problems facing South Africa couldn’t seem more removed from the issues we were used to dealing with in America.

However–*shocker*– I soon realized how wrong my perceptions of South Africa had been. One of the first things that Sara suggested we busy ourselves with was reading the South African Constitution. The Constitution of South Africa is shockingly progressive– perhaps even more so than the United States. The breadth and inclusiveness of the Bill of Rights enumerated in the Constitution mirrored that of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights. As another intern, Erin, pointed out, the SA Constitution is unique in it’s inclusiveness of so many positive rights rather than a focus on negative rights. The expansiveness of the Bill of Rights became even more apparent as Stefani and I began to work on our next project: a position paper on the decriminalization of sex work.

Though I anticipated that our internships would be enlightening in terms of legal knowledge and experience, I didn’t expect it to completely change my perspectives on issues that were also very pertinent to America. Whenever discussions regarding the criminalized nature of sex work come to the table in the United States, the prominent debate revolves around the morality of sex work and preserving American values. Before working at WLC, I had never before seen the debate about decriminalization laid out so blatantly in terms of the rights (or, rather, violation of rights) of the sex workers themselves. While reasons of societal values were briefly cited in many opposition papers, most of these competing perspectives still focused on what was best for the actual sex workers. (Check out the difference between these options of legalization, partial decriminalizaiton, and decriminalization here: https://docs.google.com/file/d/1EQ1Ht3X1LYM9y0LqgtOy6x_kPzYfAOdJtXM-dqP0wRakW34AlabBeongMTLV/edit?usp=sharing)

Criminalization doesn’t reduce the number of sex workers, it only subjects them to unsafe conditions and provides no outlet for protection or justice from the police. In fact, the police are responsible for a large proportion of the exploitation of sex workers that occurs in South Africa. Seven out of 10 sex workers who approached the WLC to report a violation had experienced some form of abuse by the police.

Decriminalization advocates the repeal of all laws against sex work, and the removal of provisions that criminalize all aspects of sex work. In doing so, decriminalization improves the protection of sex workers and reduces violations of their rights as power shifts away from the state and clients to sex workers themselves. Australia and New South Wales are the first two places to pass decriminalization legislation and–contray to the worries of many skeptics/critics– the rates of sex work have not increased. Sex workers in these two places report feeling safer due to the ability to report abuses to the police and gain the protection of employment benefits and fair labor standards. Sex workers are empowered by the ability to challenge unfair labour conditions in court, enforce contracts against employers or clients, and collectively bargain for improved working conditions. The ability to report crimes without fear of retaliation gives sex workers the agency to refuse dangerous clients and negotiate safer sex practices. Violations to the their freedom and security decrease because police and private actors are no longer able to exploit the illicit status of sex workers to sexually and physically abuse them.

While the morality of selling sex remains contentious, this debate is so disproportionate to the larger problem of the discrimination and extensive human rights violations facilitated by the criminalization of sex work. Gaining such an informed perspective on the sex work industry and the accompanying laws has challenged my prior opinions based on personal beliefs and encouraged a new rights-based perspective on the subject. (Also, as I begin to consider a topic for my public policy thesis, this issue is starting to look quite appealing…)

From the moment of our arrival in Johannesburg, it was clear that the city was unlike any I had ever visited. High walls, barbed wire, electric fences, and guard dogs were just a few of the protective measures ubiquitous among both homes and businesses. Of course, some of this was to be expected—Joburg is often mentioned as a frontrunner for the most dangerous city in the world because of how commonplace theft and violence have become. Despite the ominous statistics surrounding the city, our group felt quite at ease during our time there.

The purpose of our week in Johannesburg was to study South Africa’s volatile political history before beginning our work in Cape Town. Our trip began with a visit to Constitution Hill where the country’s Constitutional Court sits atop an old prison that held activists such as Mahatma Gandhi, Nelson Mandela, and Walter Sisulu at various times during apartheid. As we would soon learn to be the case with many of South Africa’s post-apartheid decisions regarding monuments and political/judicial institutions, communicating reconciliation and transparency were paramount in the design of Constitution Hill. The courtroom itself contained windows to reinforce its theme of transparency—this allows passersby to easily observe its proceedings. The court’s placement on top of the prison that housed so many prominent anti-apartheid activists was also incredibly symbolic of the post-apartheid regime’s search for reconciliation with South Africa’s past.

Such commitment to reconciliation was evident in other places as well. We drove on “Reconciliation Road” which connects the Voortrekker Monument, an obtrusive tribute to the Afrikaner victory over the native population, to Freedom Park, a memorial to the individuals who have died in the struggle for freedom in South Africa’s history, particularly those involved in the anti-apartheid movement. The decision to leave the Voortrekker Monument standing after the end of apartheid was a significant one. It reflects the nation’s attitude towards its past—rather than wiping away unsightly blemishes, South Africa has made a concerted effort to confront its precarious history. Perhaps nowhere is that effort more apparent than the Truth and Reconciliation Commission (TRC) which was established to heal South Africans’ fresh wounds from apartheid—the TRC utilized disclosure rather than punishment in its search for justice. The truly astounding nature of such a commission is the environment surrounding its inception; in a fledgling nation, the historically oppressed and terribly mistreated group, now with its first taste of authority, chose reconciliation instead of retribution. I find such an outcome nearly unthinkable in most nations. Indeed, South Africa’s neighbor, Zimbabwe, chose differently with lasting effects. While South Africa continues to bear scars of apartheid, the prevalent signs of a nation attempting to mend its past are both heartening and in my opinion, indispensable to the country’s future success. If I came away with anything from our week in Joburg, it is a general sense of optimism for South Africa because in spite of the difficulties that remain, the country has taken the only tenable path towards a more prosperous future.

Last Wednesday Kerri and co-hosted a tour (alongside Education Director Mandy Sanger) of District Six, as well as the Lwandle Township (a long-time home to migrant workers living in South Africa) for a tour group of students from a Connecticut boarding school that was visiting the District Six Museum where we are working for the summer. After finishing the tour of District Six we took a hour-long drive to Lwandle and upon arriving our boss, who was serving as the primary tour guide, asked the students to respect the privacy and dignity of the Lwandlan residents, for the group was unbundling cameras and video recording devices before we had even driven into the township streets. Nonetheless, a flurry of excited camera clicks and flashes began as soon as the first township resident, a young girl of about six or seven years, wearing nothing but an oversized pink tee shirt, ran barefoot to the edge of the dirt road, waving at our tour bus. “Wow, the people like, love to wave here!” one student exclaimed from the back of the tour bus. At this point, I was chuckling to myself, making note of their childish disregard. But I would soon be knocked from the pedestal of cultural sensitivity I had hoisted myself upon by an experience that followed soon after. We stopped at a museum in Lwandle, the Lwandle Migrant Labor Museum, which highlighted the stories and struggles of the men who had emigrated from various African countries to settle in Lwandlan migrant labor hostels to support their families at home during Apartheid. After exploring the museum, we walked further into town to visit the last remaining hostel, Room 33, which had been converted into a national heritage site, and presumably, a tourist attraction. As we crammed through the doorway and into the damp, dark, low-ceilinged building (which was designed to house as many as 30 male workers yet was about the same size as my Central Campus apartment at Duke, which I share with only one roommate) we noticed a large piece of cardboard, which was framed on the stone wall. It read “We the residents of Room 33 deside to write this notice disagree with you about this room to be a messeum [museum] firstly give us accommodation before you can get this room. Thank you from Room 33” Immediately after reading this statement I realized why I had no rightful reason to judge the boarding school students as naïve for their actions and statements on the bus—at that point I had lived in South Africa for only about three weeks, yet had considered my cultural knowledge and cognizance to be superior to those of newcomers. Sure, I work at the District Six Museum. Sure, I’ve learned a formidable amount of South African colonial, tribal, and Apartheid history. But right then and there, I was nothing more than a tourist, peering into the history and living community of others for my own benefit. Aristotle is famed for asserting that knowledge is nothing with praxis, or action, and that is a notion that I’ve disagreed with. Learning, about anything, is an enriching experience for the self, one that can have positive effects on one’s actions, even those outside of the context of the subject. But in that very moment I didn’t feel like a historian, a student, or a scholar—I felt like a voyeuristic outsider, the type of foreigner who “oohs” and “aahs” at the sights of a new city, the type of tourist who ogles at the poverty in an exotic, faraway land yet drives speedily through the poverty-stricken neighborhoods in his own country. Who was I, a visitor, to come into Lwandle, peering into their society, fully cognizant of their past and present struggles, while doing virtually nothing to alleviate them? I’m sure that one could argue that this sort of tourism is harmless—helpful even, if our group had stopped at the local food market to purchase our lunch. But I urge anyone reading this blog post to envision a parallel scenario: if a group of tourists, armed with digital cameras and backpacks, had come into your hometown, visited a landmark or some area of historical significance, and proceeded with snapping endless pictures of your homes, your children, your community, how would you react? One of my favorite moments in the Lwandle Township came after we left the hostel, and around 50 local children, alerted to our presence by our big, white tour bus, surrounded us, forming what looked like a parade as we walked through the roads in the township. With at least four children holding my hand on either side, and another five both in front of me and behind me, all singing and dancing gleefully for the “Americans”, I couldn’t have felt more admired. In my carefree happiness, I can safely say that not once did I think of the children’s’ parents, or their opinions on what was occurring. In factEven though I am living and working here, it’s hard to realize what distinguishes an invasive tourist from a casual visitor, a voyeur from a scholar. As I continue my stay here, I hope that I can transcend the boundary that separates those who simply marvel at, photograph, and tell stories to friends and family back home about the destitution and the suffering I have witnessed in so many areas here. I know I can’t change the world that I’ve entered, in fact, whatever I accomplish will probably only help a minute fraction of a fraction of those affected by the problems that exist in such wide range and depth here. And that’s okay. Because so many people that I have encountered, despite enduring struggles that are quite deserving of dropping jaws and opened eyes, are full of life. Children who dance and jump with visitors yet are uncertain of the availability of their next filling meal. Teenagers that spend over two hours travelling by public transportation from the slums of Khayelitsha to the District Six Museum every Saturday to spend their day learning (from me!) how to research and meaningfully present their personal histories, community histories, and collective history of struggle throughout the decades of Apartheid—while so many township kids of similar age turn to drugs and crime to fill their weekends. Cape Town, like South Africa, and the entirety of Africa, isn’t a land to be pitied, or to be ogled, or to be photographed and then forgotten at summer’s end. It is a land full of problems and prides, like any other community, town, or region in the United States. As I meet more people here, luminaries like Desmond Tutu and everyday heroes like Joyce Jonathan, a woman who was forcibly removed from District Six during Apartheid and comes to the Museum every Tuesday to share stories and craft memory-revitalizing art projects, I realize that this world is so much more than the Save the Children commercials one sees so often on American television programming. As I live and learn more here, I’ll keep you updated.